Allow me. I’ve always wanted to do a TV Without Pity-type review— AND I’m a sucker for spoiler boxes.
[spoiler]In the most ludicrous series of contrivances and coincidences that typify the storytelling of late series OZ, O’Reilly’s mom – the apparently independently wealthy volunteer music teacher – has the prison sponsor a retelling of Shakespeare’s Hamlet – or maybe MacBeth, or The Taming Of The Shrew. I promise you, it doesn’t matter. This annoying subplot is humorously presented over a few episodes apparently to ensure the storyline has absolutely no sense of poignancy or drama when the subplot reaches his climax. (Heh. I said “climax.”) Furthering the implausibilty to the farthest reaches of suspended belief, a series of accidents, deaths, thrown in the hole punishments and hospitalizations occur so that virtually all the original members of the troupe are gone, and the final two leads somehow end up being filled by hated arch-rivals Beecher and Schillenger, who take time off from tossing salads and killing each other’s family members to learn iamibic petameter.
Got it so far?
Keller(!!) is put in charge of props(!!) including the trick knife(!!) a move so blatantly stupid and painfully telegraphed that even congenitally retarded adult viewers in the HBO audience mutter, “Y’know this is some dumb shit.”
In the end, Keller (naturally) switches the knives. Schillenger dies on stage, killed by Beecher’s avenging hand.
Naturally, since they’ve killed off all the interesting brothers, some anonymous black guy cheeses to the camera, “That muthafucker is dead!” as soon as Schillenger hits the floor.
Naturally, the senior staff, watching from the audience, has their collective thumbs up their asses (whether its their own asses or the sphincter next door is sort of moot) so everyone sits around like this is normal. Which, for OZ, I guess it is.
Gouda. Wesleydale. A well-aged brie. One could whiff the cheese time zones away.[/spoiler]
I may have some details wrong, so feel free to correct me. I had to dredge this painful memory up from the recesses of my mind where I’d properly banished it.